


Shaken not Stirred

by lushthemagicdragon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'In the bar, they were nobodies.' It was 1960's America and not everything was what it seemed. (A Cold War AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaken not Stirred

_San Francisco, California.  1967_  
  
  'Cause you came and you took control  
   You touched my very soul  
   You always showed me that  
   Loving you is where it's at  
   You made me so very happy  
   I'm so glad you came into my life

   Brenda Holloway's voice hummed through the bar from the jukebox in the corner, the lyrics lost in the raw Motown serenade and the sound of the fan above Hikaru Sulu's head.  He wrestled with the wallet in his pocket as he ordered himself and his companion more drinks, careful not to accidentally yank his badge out instead.  One of the benefits of being a CIA agent, he mused, was that he could find out ahead of time which gay bars were known about and which were next to be raided.  He could avoid losing his job if he was careful, and he was more than that.  He always kept his ears open, always asked Riley from SFPD communications about bar raids, as if he wanted a laugh at the poor, sad homos who found themselves in prison or with broken noses.  This bar was carefully chosen, the cleanest and best disguised, with the most respectable clientele. 

    How he had ended up having drinks and fantastic conversation with a Russian of all people was beyond him.  He had, guiltily enough, been instantly suspicious of the man who had sat down and ordered a 'Wodka vis ice'.  He had been more than ready to make casually prying conversation and arrest him on suspicion if necessary, but the man had turned to him with tired eyes and annoyed expression, shooting him down instantly. 

"Don't look at me that way,"  He had said,  "I am not a communist.  You think that I would be here if I was?" 

    Pavel was his name, according to his introduction, and he was, in simplest terms, a refugee.  A Jew whom the American government had helped escape persecution in exchange for information, searching for a new way of life in the land of the free and the home of the brave.  As he lit himself a cigarette and offered one to Hikaru, he spoke of his new home with a light in his eyes that came with freedom and the lightness of lifted persecution and fear.  He spoke of the hell that was the USSR and Hikaru couldn't help but believe him, with his taste for Marlboros and his age-worn shoes.  Hikaru smiled, nodded, laughed at the appropriate times, reminding himself with a tap of his own dying butt against the nearest ash tray to take it all with a grain of salt.  Pavel never asked for his background, and probably assumed he was given a false name, given their location.  In the bar they were nobodies, and Hikaru could enjoy the man's smile, the wrinkle of his nose, the way he furrowed his brow when he concentrated, trying to find the English word. Hikaru didn't bother trying to help, trying to explain that he knew exactly what word he was searching for, instead holding his tongue and ordered them more drinks. 

    Three drinks in, he realized he wasn't going home alone, or home at all for that matter, and he didn't quite want to.  The casual conversation had been flirting from the start, examining and dancing around the idea of what they were both obviously in the bar for.  Why else would a refugee risk his political asylum and a CIA agent risk his job, after all?  They knew the drill, making casual and friendly conversation as they walked four blocks to Hikaru's car, as if they were old friends.  Pavel stayed in the car as Hikaru got them a no-tell-motel room, following him in quietly before their lips crushed together, his back against the door.  They fumbled with ties, suspenders, tiny buttons that refused to come undone.  Belts were tossed to the floor with the rest and pants kicked off as they stumbled towards the bed whose previous uses neither cared or wanted to think about.  It was the last things on their mind, lost in the heat and sweat and fantastic pressure.  There was nothing quicker and more full of pure adrenaline and when Hikaru woke up alone in the motel bed, with the sun rising and peeking in through the two dollar curtains, he couldn't be farther from surprised. 

\-----

    Three cups of coffee and Hikaru was barely awake enough for the meeting he was required to attend.  It was Thursday and that Sunday evening with the Russian at the bar had been the last bit of free time he had had.  He had been up all night and the night before that working on relations with an informant in China.  There had been so much confusion, so much paperwork and cryptic messaging that Hikaru could barely keep his attention focused on Spock's briefing.  As far as Hikaru was concerned, Canadians were a strange bunch of people, but no one was better qualified for the job of supervisor than him. 

"The President wants all information on Israel relayed directly to the White House.  We have direct orders to be quick with all processing so he believes that that is the case.  This puts both Israel and Cuba on top priority.  Ramirez, you are to go to Washington DC for..."

And yet, his voice was so entirely boring.  Hikaru kept his posture straight and his eyes fixed on Spock as his attention slipped in and out of focus.  It wasn't until his name was called that he snapped to attention.

"Mr. Sulu, your report on China's nuclear capabilities." 

"Yes, sir.  My informant claims that China is in fact performing nuclear tests in an undisclosed location.  Sources are saying there is an elevated radiation level in the north of the country, as well as more reports of sudden, unexplainable sickness, so It's very possible that the tests are being performed in the Hebei region.  I've already gotten in contact with the air force and they are ready and willing to send two or three U-2s to photograph the area for evidence." 

"Good."  Hikaru's attention was turned away from Spock to his real boss, one Captain James T. Kirk.  Once upon a time he had been an Iowa born-and-raised corn-fed hick who, Hikaru had learned from Uhura in communications, probably had sex with farm animals but at 20 had served in Korea, soared through military ranking and found himself, in his earlier thirties, the head of the San Francisco branch of the Central Intelligence Agency.  Despite how intimidating his history seemed, Hikaru would gladly choose to work with him over working with Spock.  He had a presence to him, one that he was sure was partially the reason for his quick success.  He made the world want to know him without, as far as anyone could tell, even trying.  Leaning forward to rest his arms on the briefing room table, Kirk looked straight at Hikaru and continued speaking.  "Send the entire report to me ASAP, and I'll take it from there." 

"Yes, sir."

As Spock continued as if the interruption had never occurred, moving on to Montomery Scott and Charlene Masters' need for improved equipment, Hikaru couldn't help but tune out once again.  It had been far too long a night, and he wanted nothing more than to get back to his work, go home and get some --

"Mister Kirk, your KGB guy is here."  The whole room seemed to jump to attention as Kirk's pretty blonde secretary stepped in.  It was the cue that they were going to be discussing the big fish that woke the crew up from their Thursday afternoon daze, as well as Rand's seeming inability to knock.  The KGB guy was here, someone that no one in the room but Spock, Kirk and apparently Mr. Scott seemed to know anything about. 

"Great, send him in." 

    Lifting himself up from his seat to stand beside Spock, Kirk took the initiative to address the room instead of letting Spock do so himself.  It was part of his charm, Hikaru figured, his ability to flawlessly interrupt the one uninterruptable person he had ever met and keep the attention of everyone in the room.  "Three days ago, the KGB sent one of our moles here to collect information for them.  This makes it easier on him but harder to get his job done.  You are to help Mr. Chekov if he needs it, and vice versa.  Keep in mind that he is still believed by the Russians to be their man and not ours, so I don't want to hear any unwarranted suspicions, got it? If you're going to make me start that whole mess, you had better have a damn good reason.  You will all be providing him with useless information at his and my discretion to send back in order to keep his cover secure.  He's here right now to brief us on recent developments in the USSR."

    As if on cue, the Russian in question pushed open the door and stepped in, straight laced, confident, and the last person Hikaru ever expected to see.  It took him a moment to stop staring, somewhat dumbfounded, at the same Russian refugee who had wrestled him for control with a laugh and a smile less than a week prior.  It didn't take long, mere seconds, for Hikaru to realise exactly what had happened.  The story was a ruse, all of it, and he had taken every word of it for possible fact.  There was no refugee, only the spy in his black suit and worn patent-leather shoes who had met his eyes for a split second.  They had widened with mutual surprise, but the shock was gone in an instant, leaving only Spock to raise a brow at what had just occurred.  Hikaru couldn't help but remember the feel of the Russian's arms around his waist and the heat of his Marlboro breath against his neck; the sweat that dripped down his lightly freckled back or the victorious amusement that had graced his features once or twice that night.  That accented voice, far clearer now than he could remember it, went on about Soviet nuclear policy and Yuri Andropov, his eyes darting to and from Hikaru, breaking and making the connection over and over. 

It only served to remind Hikaru how well he had been fooled. 

\------

    There were very few ideas more oximoronic than privacy at a urinal.  There was absolutely nothing private about standing in front of what was essentially a low sink with your dick in your hands and nothing but a small porcelain divide between you and the man to your left or right.  Hikaru was sure that the straight men of the world thought that people like him got off to the idea, but he couldn't think of anything more awkward and unattractive.  Still, despite the unrestrained exposure that came from using urinals, Hikaru couldn't think of a better place to have a private conversation as the Russian Mister Chekov walked in the moment he unzipped.  The bathroom was the one place in the entire building where there wasn't someone watching and listening, and for that he was grateful.  Their eyes met with surprise similar to what had hit them earlier, the awkwardness of the moment stretched by two simultaneous, sheepish smiles. 

"Pavel." 

"Hikaru." 

The silence was painful as Hikaru tried to find the right words to say. His thoughts were a mess, jumbled and unintelligible, the right phrases zipping to his tongue the moment they were formulated. 

"That's actually my--"

"My name really is--" 

    It was laughable, really, that the two had jumped to say the same thing at the same time, and the goofy grin on Pavel's face seemed out of place on someone who was required to kill for his job if necessary.  In that moment, frozen at the door on the verge of embarrassed laughter, Pavel seemed so much younger than he had at the bar, shooting weighted glances his way, silently propositioning him.  He seemed almost like a kid, in too far over his head.  It was ridiculous, of course, he had to be at least in his late 20s to have his job, but wrinkles hadn't started touching his face, hadn't tarnished the freckled softness there.  And what was he doing, idealizing his coworker, and an ex-KGB at that?  It was unprofessional, not to mention risky.  The moment was over, the awkward had passed, and Hikaru returned his attention to his own porcelain enclosure as Pavel made his own way to the urinal beside his.  This didn't have to be strange, of course.  They could relieve themselves in silence, and go about their business as would be entirely normal. 

"How are you doing today, Mr. Sulu?"

    Except there was absolutely no chance of them being normal, was there?  Not after they had been pressed together, squirming and panting along with the rhythm of their bodies.  His eyes found their way back to Pavel, to his tie and button down shirt, to the rolled up sleeves and the vivid black ink of the cross tattooed on his wrist, no longer obscured by the watch that had migrated in the last few days to his other hand. 

"I'm doing well, Mr. Chekov.  I thought you were Jewish,"  Hikaru joked in reference to the tattoo, an eyebrow raised to match the amused quirk on his lips.  He knew all too well that what he had been told was just a well fabricated cover story, much like his own.  As far as most people he met on the street knew, Hikaru worked for a paper company, giving fencing lessons to kids in the evenings.  With their careers, with what they knew, the couldn't afford to tell most who they really were. It was, he supposed, the reason why so many relationships failed, such as Leonard McCoy's.   Pavel just laughed, as if they were at that bar once again, listening to raw Motown blues dissolve in the air circulated by the repeated cutting of the overhead fan, rather than in the office bathroom, side by side at the urinals.  All there was to listen to here was the sound of drain, Pavel's laugh, and one leaking sink dripping off rhythm with his heart. 

"I am Catholic.  It was a--"

"A ruse, I know.  I was just kidding." 

"Ah! Sorry, this is my first time in America, and I--"

"Don't worry about it, it happens."  Hikaru assured him with a smile, and he could swear Pavel's cheeks had not been that pink before.  He had to be imagining it, his memory rose-tinted and confused.

"I had no idea who you were, Sulu, I promise."

"I didn't think you had."

There was a silence, and Hikaru focused his attention back on the white tiles in front of him, wishing his bladder would just empty.  God, he wished he hadn't had so much coffee.  This was awkward, uncomfortable, and beyond unprofessional. 

"We could do it again if you would like."

    There was only so much Hikaru could do not to jerk his head in Pavel's direction in surprise.  He hadn't expected that, not in the slightest, far from it in fact.  They had jobs to do, and dangerous ones at that.  Neither of them could afford to fraternize, especially not given that they were both users of the men's bathroom.  The suggestion had promise, sure, and was one he would give himself in a somewhat more normal situation, but it was...illogical for lack of a better word.   _Damn_ , he was spending far too much time around Mr. Spock.  Tucking back in and zipping his fly, Hikaru smiled sheepishly and backed off towards the sink.

"It might not be a good idea, Chekov.  We need to work together, and it's not exactly legal."  For as long as Hikaru could remember, he had satisfied his primal urges in the deepest secrecy.  The last time he had been with a woman had been his twenty-first birthday, when he realized he would have rather slept with her brother.  Now all that sneaking around was threatening to get the best of him, peeking its ugly head out of the cracks right into the belly of the beast; his career.  So what if Spock's voice haunted him and every important decision he made?  There was too much at risk for him not to be logical.

"Alright, if you say so,"  In the time it took for Hikaru to respond, Pavel had made his own way over to the sinks.  He smiled brightly, albeit professionally at his co-worker before continuing.  "Could I at least buy you dinner?" 

Well, Hikaru had never been too good at flawless logic, anyway. 

With a half-defeated sigh and his own small smile, Hikaru nodded and headed towards the bathroom door.  "Sure, why not?  We can talk shop."  As he pushed the door open and slipped out towards his office, Hikaru couldn't help but notice the proud look on Pavel's face. 

\-------   
 __  
San Francisco, California.  December 31st, 1967  
  
"You know, you should probably be spending your first New Years eve in the US celebrating."

Celebrating.  It was an interesting choice of words on his part, Hikaru mused as he looked down at the Russian in his arms, resting his head on his shoulder and his hand on his chest.  They could easily consider what they were doing celebrating, though it hadn't been what he meant.  He meant standing outside in the cool winter air, partying in some bar or other celebratory venue, watching the people with gold plastic hats and noisemakers make fools of themselves, all while being completely plastered and completely joyous.  It was what he himself had done for the longest time, until recent years when he just got tired of it.  Pavel though, should have been out there in the crowd.  His first American New Years' Eve, and he was wasting it in bed with  _him_ , drinking expensive champagne and enjoying as many rounds as they could handle of mindblowingly good sex. 

Well, Hikaru wasn't going to complain, though it was only 11:30 and his back was already starting to ache.   

"Ach,"  Pavel scoffed, rolling over onto his back and waving his hand at Hikaru to dismiss the thought."This is celebrating.  I would rather be here than outside with the loud, obnoxious, drunk Americans." 

"I happen to be one of those loud, obnoxious, drunk Americans,"  Hikaru commented, staring at the glass of champagne he was swirling lazily.  It was good, that was for sure, and they were almost finished with the second bottle.  It's last serving remained in his glass, glittering in the yellow-tinted light of the florescent lamp above their heads.  "As will you once your job is done." 

" _If_  my job is done."  Pavel corrected, a finger raised to state his case-and-point.  It only caused Hikaru to frown as he placed his glass back down on the bedside table and wrapped his arms around his lover. 

"It'll be done.  This war will end soon enough, it can't keep up at this rate, you know that.  The Soviets will surrender, and then you will have American citizenship and a free life." 

"СССР никогда не будет сдаваться."  Pavel replied instantly, and Hikaru held him closer, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth.  Every muscle that tensed under him, so unusual for Pavel, served to remind him of just where the other man was from.  A country of brainwashing, like they told the American people, where children repeated patriotic phrases daily to instill in them that they weren't victims.  It made Hikaru sick, far sicker than it ever did before.  It made him want to do his job better than he already was, push himself and everyone else farther, just to get the job done. 

"I'm so sorry, Pav.."

"Do not apologize,"  Pavel half snapped and sighed to try and relax himself.  "There is nothing to be sorry about."

"Pavel..."  Hikaru was cut off by lips hard against his, changing the subject wordlessly and grasping for Hikaru to catch on.  He wanted to continue, but sunk into the kiss, letting their lips and the champagne haze carry the world away.  Fingers wandered, tracing skin and scars, exploring what they already knew so well, and Pavel's phone rang. 

"Ignore it, Pavel,"  Hikaru groaned as the Russian pulled himself out of his arms and swung himself off of the bed.  "Whoever is calling this late on New Years Eve is probably drunk." 

"It could be my superiors calling to tell me that they have figured out that I am a spy and that they have sent someone to kill me!  I must get it." 

"You are such a pessimist, you know that?"

"Pessimist?  No, I am a realist!  Алло?" 

    Hikaru laughed to himself as he propped himself up and glancing around Pavel's bedroom.  Despite the bouncy, somewhat eccentric manner in which Pavel A. Chekov presented himself, his bedroom was surprisingly bare.  There were a few articles of clothing lying around, though Hikaru knew that was partially his fault, and a couple of books scattered around with papers sticking out of them in odd directions.  Other than that, though, the room didn't feel nearly as lived in as Hikaru knew it was.  It wasn't like his office, with papers taped and tacked all over the place with various notes and equations that were absolute gibberish to an outsider.  Still, despite the room being bare bones, it was still so very Pavel, and Hikaru liked that.  He liked everything Pavel, he realized.  From the bareness of his room to the chaos of his office, to the furrow of his brow when he concentrated to the proud cock of his chin when he was victorious.

Where had Hikaru been, seven months ago?  Picking up strangers in bars so very carefully, going to the same no-tell-motels that politicians did when CIA like him had to cover their asses.  He hadn't been happy, not like he was now, exhausted, aching, tipsy and absolutely in heaven.  He didn't want to lose it, not for anything, even if it meant continuing to live their secret, hidden lives. 

He realized quite suddenly, as he watched Pavel pad back into his bedroom, that he was actually in love.  For the first time in his life, he didn't want things to ever change.  He could do this, handle the running and hiding, for the rest of his life just for moments like this.

"So, who was it?"  Hikaru asked as he wrapped his arms back around his Russian, holding him close. 

"KGB, what did I tell you?  Kirk should be getting that conversation in the morning." Pavel said around the cigarette that had found its way into his mouth as he offered Hikaru one from his tin.  He lit the two cigarettes before tossing his lighter onto the bedside table beside the glass of champagne and took a long drag, as if only nicotine, tobacco and tar could relax him after the last ten minutes.  Hikaru watched the embers glow on the tip of Pavel's cigarette as he reached for the ashtray, a content smile on his lips.  The cigarettes from Pavel's tin never tasted quite the same as those from the pack, and yet he refused to get a new one.  Hikaru had never in his life found stubbornness so endearing. 

"I love you." 

    The words came out faster than Hikaru ever expected, falling out of his mouth into the air, available to be heard and judged.  He hadn't quite meant to say it, hadn't meant to lose control of himself and verbalize the first, most prominent thing that came to mind.  He just stared at Pavel, waiting for any sort of response, any at all to fill the silent gap he had created, heavy in its emptiness.  He didn't know what to expect, not the furrow of his brow and tension in his lips that was always there when he was thinking hard, nor the smokey cigarette breath against his lips as Pavel removed the cigarette from his mouth and placed it in the ashtray mere seconds before kissing him.  He was still waiting for any words, any at all, but lips and tongue against his was soothing in ways he never would have imagined. 

"я люблю тебя тоже..."  Pavel muttered against his lips before pressing them together again, his hands firmly against Hikaru's chest as he put out his own cigarette and wrapped his arms around his lover, a chuckle on his lips.  It all made him want to just laugh, his chest full of so many emotions wrapped and tangled in each other.  The contagious start of laughter hit Pavel soon enough, and when Hikaru rolled him off of his chest and onto the bed on his back, the flittering start of a laugh bubbled up on Pavel's throat.  He littered it with kisses, his head a haze of champagne, nicotine, sweat and joy, absorbed in the marks he had already left on Pavel's pale collarbone and the feel of fingers in his hair. 

"Hikaru...it's 12:03." 

Meeting Pavel's eyes, Hikaru pressed a soft kiss to his lips.  "Happy New Year."

"Da, I think that it will be a good one." 

\--------

_San Francisco, California 1969_

 

_Will be late.  Key is under the mat.  - Pav._

    Hikaru crumpled the short, concise letter which he had received earlier in the day, flat and hidden in between paperwork, and tossed it into the grocery bag as he bent over to lift the mat in front of Pavel's door.   Two years now, and the motions had become routine.  They had done this many times before, having come to the conclusion that making doubles of their keys was far from the best idea.  Times were getting harder, tensions building in all directions and threatening to erupt like Vesuvius, and they couldn't afford to be sloppy.  As far as the world was concerned, they were best friends, enjoying each others company in a strictly platonic way.  They went out with the guys for drinks, talked about women, sex, baseball and those goddamn reds.  Hikaru even had a girlfriend, one Susan Ling from communications, a clean cut beauty with a sharp tongue and a sense of humor.  As far as acts went,  they were doing pretty well, as difficult as it was. 

       Shifting the grocery bags in his arms, Hikaru slipped the key into the door and let himself in, closing it with his foot behind him.  Outside, the Vietnam war was forcing its way to a close, protesters were growing in numbers, probes and men were exploring the final frontier with nuclear fire on their breaths, but inside, everything was calm.  Inside there was no dead Chinese informant, no demand to pull out the troops, no Richard Nixon demanding his own brand of perfection.  Inside there was nothing but the stale smell of cigarettes long since put out and of Pavel's favorite woody air freshener.  Placing the bags down, Hikaru picked up the mail that lay almost haphazardly on the counter.  They had an unspoken agreement not to read each other's mail, but that did not mean that he couldn't casually look at what the envelopes said.  Bills, bills, junk, something in Russian that Hikaru was sure was work related, more junk, and the daily paper.  Without a second thought he dropped the pile of envelopes back down onto the counter, grabbed the paper to read what he didn't already know, and returned his attention to the unpacked grocery bags.  It had all started with a casual conversation, really, on the topic of cooking ability.  It had been a challenge, saying that Hikaru could not cook because he never tried.  Of course he had had to protect his honor, and the first thing he had done was visit the nearest supermarket after work. 

    Tugging a celery stick out of it's rubber band packaging, he took a bite and stuck it in his mouth as scanned the newspaper for anything that was news to him.  Gay riots in New York: are the gays becoming a real threat to society?  With a sigh, he placed down the newspaper and glanced around the apartment that he knew so well.  Two years of this, finding peace behind closed doors, and he loved every minute of it.  He enjoyed the stale Marlboro smell, the woody air freshener that reminded Pavel of his childhood home, the empty apartment walls. He enjoyed his shoes at the door and the mail on the counter, with a red cigarette carton sticking out of the fattest of the envelopes.

Red cigarette carton? 

    Hikaru paused, the package of chicken he had taken out still in his hands as he turned his attention to the offending carton, his brow furrowed in confusion.  It was odd, out of place, sticking out like a red thumb in a star spangled crowd.  Placing the chicken down and taking another bite of the celery in his mouth, he removed the carton to examine it further.  прима, a Soviet brand, unopened and yet so very much there, staring at him as if it was a bomb, ticking and ready to blow.  Without hesitation he opened it, popping out a cigarette and turning it in his fingers.  He had seen this before, so many times, this same cigarette that Pavel had never mentioned receiving had touched his lips for two years, tasting strange and never quite like a Marlboro.  It wasn't a Marlboro, he knew that much now, and as he lifted the cigarette to his nose to smell it, his confusion deepened. 

Pavel had been smoking Primas for the last two years, and yet had never told him.  Why?  Why had he kept the cigarettes a secret?  Why had he gone along and pretended they were Marlboros like the ones he occasionally bought at the corner store when the day was stressful and he had burned out his own supply?  What was the point?

    They had an unspoken agreement not to read each other's mail, but there the answer was, staring him in the face.  It was in that fat envelope torn open by nimble fingers, hidden in the Cyrillic page after page.  He had assumed that it was from his family, or related to his own personal informants, but now he couldn't help but be unsure.  He moved almost in slow motion to pick up the envelope and remove the pages and pages of letter, and began to read. 

By the time he had finished, the celery stick lay all but abandoned on the floor.

\---------

    The sound of keys in the door were like thunder cracking, echoing through the empty apartment.  Absolutely empty, like it always had been, and now it finally made sense.  It was staring at him, glaring at him, laughing and mocking, and had been continuously for the last few hours.  How many had it been since he sat down with his gun in his hand, unable to grip it tight enough despite the marks it was leaving on his skin.  Two?  Three?  Four maybe?  The sun had gone down in that time, and he hadn't even noticed.  The shifting light and color of the world outside had gone as unnoticed as the ingredients to the long forgotten dinner that lay haphazardly on the counter to get stale and rotten. 

    The creak of the door opening was supposed to be the cue for Hikaru to lift his head, jump to his feet and hold the gun out to the man he had been foolish enough to think of as his lover, but the metal at his fingertips held his attention like a magnet, making his head and neck too heavy.  It made his ears ring, the heavy silence painful.  There were no footsteps, after the initial step in through the doorway, just the tinnitus in his ears from the stark emptiness.  The hard, cold voice of their--his supervisor had wormed its way into his head over the years, calmly reminding him to be logical.  He knew what Spock would do in a situation like this; exactly what Hikaru would have to do.  Pavel was probably pointing his own gun at him, more than ready to get rid of the man who he played for too long.  He had to respond, he knew it, but he didn't want to.  He didn't want to with every fiber of his being. 

    With hesitation to move mountains, Hikaru managed to lift his head to find Pavel's gaze, only to catch it instantly.  There was no gun, no hardened killer expression that he had seen from the sidelines in the past. He hadn't even moved to remove his coat, standing in the doorway protected from the sharp autumn wind that he was no longer exposed to.  He just stared back, not tearing his eyes away for anything, not moving an inch.  He knew, just like Hikaru knew.  There was a mutual understanding in those eyes, a sinking knowledge that everything was over. 

    "You read my mail."  Pavel stated without a quiver, his voice far calmer and quieter with the coming storm.  It was just a statement of the obvious, above all else, and entirely necessary despite the illogic of it.  The bulky envelope remained untouched beside the letter, Cyrillic print smudged from how hard Hikaru had been holding it, his sweat blurring the truth.  It was so obvious, so glaringly obvious; a lost cause. 

    "It was an accident." 

    The deafening silence made every sound seem endless.  Every crinkle of Pavel's coat seemed like an earthquake, the quiet shutting of the door like a heart attack.  It took everything Hikaru had in him, as an agent and a man, to keep his reputable cool and stand on his two feet.  Pavel was staring down the barrel of a gun, but his eyes remained fixed on Hikaru's.  The oxygen in the room had turned to glue, catching the words in Hikaru's throat, making the air thick and his tongue impossibly hard to find. 

    "Tell me this isn't what it looks like." 

    Silence, still so thick and full of everything they had done and said in the last two years.  He was letting Pavel make up a cover story, something he would surely regret later.  He had a job to do, a duty to his country, and yet the evidence that the man he loved was going against everything he stood for was so glaringly obvious.  He wanted to pretend it didn't exist.  He didn't want to have to put up the hard, uncompromised mask that his job had given him, the one trying its hardest to stay up.  He wanted to make Pavel dinner, to laugh about how bad it was, to have amazing sex and hurry back to his own apartment across town in the wee hours of the morning.  He didn't want the truth, because he knew what he would have to do. What he  _had_  to do.

    "It is exactly what it looks like." 

    Pavel should have taken the opening, they both knew it, but the gates were open with an honesty Hikaru couldn't remember having seen or heard before.  There was nothing in the way, no point in lying, even though the logic was all there.  It was an illogical mess, simple, straightforward and impossible to escape.  They were done. Everything was done. 

    "How long have you been working for them?"  Hikaru's voice was steady, the hand wrapped around his gun still and unwavering.  He could be a professional; he was one and always had been, but the tension was gnawing at his insides like a virus demanding every part of him.  He didn't want this, their world becoming stale and rotten; ingredients in disarray. 

    "Four years." 

    Hikaru's jaw tensed, his teeth clenching and grinding from the statement of the fact.  The entire time they had been together, and then some.  Pavel had been a spy for that long, and he had never figured it out.  Never once had he stopped to think when wrapped up in everything that was Pavel that something was off.  He had failed miserably at his job, fallen into such a well planned trap.  The night at the bar, the meeting with Spock and Kirk, everything that had happened to them from then to now, fabricated, it had to be.  Hikaru had been shot, pushed off a building into a dumpster, hit by a man on a bicycle, and stabbed multiple times in practice and not, but nothing hurt quite as much as this.  It twisted and tore, deep in his gut, making the bile rise in his throat. 

    "You've been two-timing us for four years."

    "Not you."  It was sudden, Pavel's voice jumping to attention.  He had been so calm, so passive, so aware of the situation he was in, but now?  Now there was something different, something desperate.  Something that tugged and pulled harder than the truth had, that felt like the most pathetic, bitter attempt to rub in exactly how successful he had been.  If anything, it only served to make Hikaru angry.

    "Not  _me?_ You've been using me all this time to get information, and you say 'not me'?"

    "I could have done my job without you, Hikaru." 

    "But instead you decided to make it easier for yourself and drag someone down with you."

    " _That's not it at all_."   

    There was so much left to say, and nothing.  I love you, I adore you, I need you, lost in the autumn wind smacking against the window.  Pavel moved to step closer, only to stop in his tracks.  There was no point anymore, trying to defend himself.  It was all there, unspoken words of just how much they meant to each other, and just how little it all meant in the grand scheme of things.  There was no abandoning their countries, no running away to Canada to escape everything.  It was all pointless fantasies, dreams for teenagers.  They had their placed in the world, their feet planted firmly on the ground, and no amount of love or desire could change that. 

    No wonder they had hit it off all those months ago.  They both did their jobs so well. 

    The silence that struck was endless.  It was filled with wordless apologies and pleas for forgiveness, things that neither would ever be able to say.  It was as if they were thinking together, with one communal brain and one communal understanding.  Pavel would have to leave, and Hikaru would have to do his job.   They would never see each other again, not without both guns drawn and loaded.  The job came first.  It always had and it always would.  

"You have twenty-four hours to get out of the country, Chekov."  Hikaru stated as calmly as he could muster.  The risk he was taking didn't need to be vocalized.  He should have shot him in the knee and called for back up, but he couldn't.  It wouldn't hurt anyone to send him back, one man with minimal power couldn't throw off the balance.  He needed to give him the chance to go home and never come back.  Was it treason?  He didn't quite think so.  It had been done before on both sides, after all.  "Get out."

"If I go back empty handed, they will kill me." 

It was a cold, hard truth that Hikaru had tried so hard to ignore.  It made him doubt himself, more than he already had been, but the hard twist of professionalism in his gut had to win out in the end.  There was nothing he could do, nothing either of them could do, nothing but hope for the best.

"You've given them plenty already.  Hopefully that'll be enough for them.  Get out."

The look in Pavel's eyes was painful, hitting and tugging on every nerve and heart-string he had.  It was hopelessness, sadness, masked so very well by his serious expression, leaking out through his eyes into the world. 

"This is my apartment.  Can I at least gather my things?" 

_"..._ All right."  

    The wordless understanding,  _I wish I didn't need you,_ hung in the air like a bad subtitle as Pavel walked around the apartment to pack a small duffel bag.  Hikaru followed, keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the man whose movements and mannerisms he knew better than the back of his own hand, not a word spared between them.  Any more and they felt the world would break, crack right now the middle under their feet and suck them into hell.  It didn't take long for Pavel to pack what little he owned in his tiny San Francisco apartment and head back towards the door.  It was like the universe was in slow motion as Pavel opened the door and stepped through the doorway, turning right before closing it to look back at his familiar enemy. 

"I'm..."  The  _sorry_ was lost, unimportant and superficial, held back by a ruthless combination of Pavel's pride and the hopelessness of the situation.  "I'm Russian Orthodox."  With that the door was closed, the chapter in both of their lives rushing quickly to it's end.  Lowering his gun, Hikaru stepped backwards into the chair he had sat in for the last few hours, hanging his head back against it and sighing weakly through his nose.  It was all too quick and impossible, and what had seemed so perfect lay shattered in front of him.  He had to pick of the pieces as quickly as possible with no fuss, but all he could do was lean forward into his hands, staring at the spotless floor with eyes that refused to tear, hearing nothing but the hollow ache in his chest and the cars zooming by outside, their radios blasting music that seeped in through the open window with the wind.

_You made me so very happy_  
    I'm so glad you came into my life  
    You made me so very happy  
    You made me so so, so very happy, babe  
    I'm so glad you came  
    Into my life.  



End file.
